


Lifting the Mask

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, M/M, Mental Regression, Mentions of Murder, Mindfuck, Omorashi, POV Hannibal, Watersports, Wetting, non-con, victim grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2116560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal had realized that Will’s trouble, fundamentally, was that he was bound by his society’s standards of acceptable forms of pleasure.  He had the desire and ability to be something wonderful, but his mind fought against his impulses, labeled them as wrong.  </p><p>Hannibal needs to help him understand.</p><p>-</p><p>(in plain words hannibal makes will piss himself in his office)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifting the Mask

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE TAGS FOR TWs
> 
> there is no sex but this is still noncon
> 
> Takes place maybe like 60-70% through season 1

Hannibal is in the middle of one final sweep through his office, checking for anything askew, when he hears a thud at the door.  He stills and draws a small knife from his pocket, waiting until he has more information to act.  Whoever is on the other side of the door turns the knob and tries to open it multiple times, apparently forgetting the lock every few seconds.  Hannibal knows who it is before he hears his voice, groaning in confusion.

“Hannibal,” Will says slowly.  “Open it.”

Hannibal unlocks the door and gestures inside.  “You didn’t call,” he hints.

“No time.”  Will drops himself on Hannibal’s patient sofa and sighs.  He looks completely wrecked- his clothes are wrinkled, his buttons are out of order, his hair is tangled chaotically with leaves and twigs interspersed in the knots, and Hannibal can smell his week-old sweat from the other side of the room.

“Tell me more,” Hannibal prompts him as he walks to his minifridge for a bottle of water.

“It’s fucked,” Will says.  He doesn’t continue.  Hannibal taps his shoulder lightly and presents him with the water bottle, but Will just stares at it like Hannibal was handing him the Voynich manuscript.

“You’re perspiring,” he explains.

“Oh,” Will says simply.  He opens the bottle and downs it in a few quick gulps.  He’d been even curter than usual for the past few weeks.

“You’re off duty for the night?”

Will nods.  “And tomorrow, and Friday.  Jack won’t let me back.  Says I need a break before I crack, something about strings,” he says with a grimace.

“Jack cares about you, Will.  You’ve not been yourself lately.” 

Will doesn’t respond for several moments.  Then, he looks up and asks, “Why would he put the liver _back_?”

Hannibal feigns confusion.  “The Ripper?”

“I can’t- it doesn’t make sense.  Nothing’s making sense,” Will says, growing visibly more distraught as he goes on. “I can’t understand like I used to-“

“Will.”  Will stops and blinks several times.  “I don’t know exactly what is happening in your head, that might hinder you so.  However, as your psychiatrist, it does concern me that you’ve been closing yourself off.”

Will takes a while to decipher the words.  “I what?”

“Higher cognition is closely linked to trust.  In a state of prolonged mental defense, imagination- like what is required in your work- is simply not your mind’s priority.”  Will stares at him with a mix of apprehension and wariness.  “The Sistene Chapel could not have been built, had all of its workers been constantly afraid for their life.  And you _are_ afraid, aren’t you?”

“I’m in immediate danger. Of course I’m afraid.”

“But even now, you’re afraid.  Aren’t you?”  Will nods hesitantly.  “You know, rationally, that you’re perfectly safe in this office.  And yet the fear persists.”

Will looks away.  “I feel… like I’m being watched.  By a thousand starving eyes.  Cameras.  Footsteps.”  He covers his face in his hands.  “Help me, please.”

  It pains him to see Will so broken. 

“Yes, of course.  Would you be willing to undergo a more unortho-“

“Anything.”

“I’d like to share a bottle with you,” Hannibal says.

 Will scrunches up his face.  “You want to get me drunk?”

“I do believe it would help your progress if you were to perform a physical demonstration of trust.” 

Will nods.  Hannibal knows it’s only because of his sickness-induced desperation that he’s even considering this.  What a blessing, that Hannibal alone had noticed it, and is able to use it to shape Will into everything he’d always wanted to be, to peel back his self-imposed mask and reveal the raw, beautiful truth underneath.

He selects one of his finer bottles, aged just shy of seventy-five years.  From his cupboard, he pulls a glass dusted with a moderate dose of temazepam.  He pours the wine slowly, allowing it to breathe and aerate, and swirls to dissolve the fine residuals of powder.

He doesn’t tell Will the name of the wine when he hands him the glass; the significance would doubtless be lost on him.  Will sniffs it before taking a sip.  His distaste is apparent on his face, but he finishes the drink anyways in a few quick gulps.

 Were he anyone else, Hannibal would be disgusted by such a wanton disregard for the intricacies of its flavor.  But Will is different. He is not the type of person to put himself through displeasure for anyone.  Hannibal must be quite special to him.

When he’s finished, Hannibal hands him a glass of clean, undoctored water.  “Take care of your body.  We can’t have our top investigator hung over.”

Will’s lips curl almost like a snarl, which Hannibal has come to understand as a sort of half-smile.  He only drinks half the glass.  He spills another quarter of it on the table when he sets it down, but doesn’t even seem to notice.  It would be maybe ten minutes before the effects of the drug would begin to set in, after which Hannibal expects to see some very strange, intimately telling behavior from Will.

Hannibal had realized very recently that Will’s trouble, fundamentally, was that he was bound by his society’s standards of acceptable forms of pleasure.  He had the desire and ability to be something wonderful, but his mind fought against his impulses, labeled them as wrong.  Eventually, Hannibal hoped to work him up to understanding the role that death played in Will’s own desires, but he knew it was much too much to expect from Will now.  Instead, he’d been laying groundwork leading to it.  As carefully as he’d been planning, he’s still very nervous for tonight.  It was quite a sudden step to take, but Will was at the perfect point in his illness.

“How long before the treatment fixes me?” Will asks.  His voice has a barely tangible slur to it.

Hannibal purses his lips.  He doesn’t love Will’s choice of words- he’s not broken, simply tired- but the distinction would be irrelevant to Will. 

“Such is impossible to say.  The patient’s willingness to recover is one of the most important factors in many treatments,” Hannibal responds, pouring him another half glass of wine.

Will grimaces.  “Who wouldn’t wanna recover from this?  I’m in hell.”

Hannibal hands him the glass.  “Drink.”

Will hesitates only a moment before downing the contents.

“What is hell, Will?”  Hannibal asks after Will sets the glass down.

Will seems to be looking at something to the side of Hannibal’s head.  “You- you hafta know what hell is,” he slurs.  He stops to inspect his fingernails intently.  “Or isn’t,” he adds.

Hannibal doesn’t respond for several moments, and Will doesn’t seem to notice.

“How are you feeling?” Hannibal asks.  He knows Will won’t remember their previous conversation.

Will’s eyes roam around the room, glazed, aimless. “Sh- ssshhhitty.” 

“Please, elaborate.” 

“G- gotta piss,” Will says.  He tries to get up, but falls back on the couch dizzily.  He looks at Hannibal.  “Can y’show me t’bathroom,” he says, not bothering to lilt his request into a question.

“Ah, yes, about that,” Hannibal begins.  Will looks confused.  “This is where the treatment becomes very unusual.”  Hannibal pauses.  “Do you trust me, Will?”

Will nods.

“Many recent studies have focused on the physiological effects of bladder release.  For intentional urination, the brain must have present enough of the chemicals involved in trust and openness.” 

He’s lying.  He’s neither read nor heard of any such studies.  But a lack of scientific data should not be allowed to impede Will’s progress.  Hannibal knows what Will needs, and the facts _should_ be twisted as necessary.

Hannibal watches Will carefully for a reaction.  Sober, he might have punched him; but now, he seems to be seriously considering it.

“You- Hanbul, y’want… the fuck?”

“I realize this is a delicate position to put you in, but I truly believe it will help you.”  Hannibal looks at Will imploringly.

Will struggles for a moment.  Hannibal can plainly see him debating all of the possibilities.  Then, he stops.  He looks at Hannibal.  “You think it’ll help?”

“I would not suggest something so strange if I did not.”

Will nods.  “It’s- I can’t.”

“Do you want to?” Hannibal asks.

Will nods.  “My tummy hurts.”

Hannibal, momentarily, is taken aback by such an infantile display.  He quickly works the development into his framework of understanding.

Will’s close to breaking through, but he’s not quite there.  Two states of mind are battling in his head.  He wants to give in to the dirty, unacceptable pleasure, and he knows he has Hannibal’s support in it, but his dominant mind is screaming society’s taboo’s at him.  Will can’t comprehend so fully enjoying something that goes against society’s structures.  Likely, the last time he’d done so was as a child, before he realized the taboos, and the temazepam had muddled his thinking enough that instead of a subconscious association, he was instead reenacting. 

Hannibal would very much like to know what taboos young Will so ignorantly broke, but he decides to save that for later.

“Relax, Will.  You’re safe here.  Lay back,” Hannibal says evenly.

Will does try.  He leans back, only to curl back up on himself violently.  He shakes his head.  “Can’t, hurts.  Gotta pee, please, I gotta.”

He’s clearly in great pain, both physically and emotionally.  Fighting exactly what he needs.

“Why do you restrain yourself, Will?”

“Couch’ll get dirty.”

“It’s my couch, Will, and I’m telling you that’s alright.”

Will’s knuckles are going white with the force he’s using to clench his jeans.  “But- that’s _wrong-_ “

“How is it wrong?”

Will nearly snarls.  “It’s not something people _do_!”

Hannibal takes the outburst in stride.  “I am not people, Will.  I am your friend.  Please, let go.”  Will’s mood abates.  Still, he doesn’t release.  “Would you like me to help you?” Hannibal offers.

Will nods.

Hannibal gets up and positions himself behind the couch.  He pulls Will back by the shoulders, forcing him to straighten out with gentle pressure.  Will’s breath speeds up.  “Let go.”

Will closes his eyes and Hannibal expects it to begin, but nothing happens for several moments.  Then, Will begins to panic.

“It- It’s stuck- not coming out, ohgodHanniIcan’t-“

“It’s not stuck, Will.  Take a deep breath.” 

Will takes a shallow, shaking breath.  “Again.”  His second attempt is better.  Deeper.  “Good.”

Hannibal leans over.  He can smell the alcohol in Will’s sweat, the sweetness of the drugs, the sharp, pungent odor of his armpits.  He takes Will’s hands with no resistance and guides the over his lower stomach.

“Again,” he says quietly.  Hannibal applies firm pressure to the swollen tissues.

Will gasps and Hannibal hears the tight, sudden rush of fluid against Will’s jeans before he smells it.  He removes his hands and watches Will’s face rapturously.

Will moans as the stream continues.  His eyebrows twist and he bites his lip, his muscles visibly relax.  Everything about his expression suggests immense, orgasmic pleasure as he stains Hannibal’s sofa with his waste, and Hannibal doesn’t doubt that he’s experiencing anything short of divine relief. 

It _is_ disgusting.  Hannibal will have to throw away the sofa tomorrow, maybe tonight.  But pleasure is linked to the repulsive as often as not.  It could be explained as a trick of the mind, designed to encourage that which humans would rather suppress, but that made the reality of its reward no less valuable.

Consciously, Will is bound to forget this tomorrow.  Still, subconsciously, a part of him will begin to accept the pleasure to be found in embracing his dirty, taboo desires.

Puddles have begun to form on the hardwood floor around Will’s feet.  His pants are deeply darkened from his groin to his thighs.  Hannibal imagines that urine is running down his legs, pooling in his shoes.  But Will doesn’t notice any of that.  His eyes remain closed and he nods vacantly, mumbles something unintelligible.

Hannibal takes a seat back on the other side of the table.  He estimates that Will has no more than five minutes before the temazepam takes full effect, and though he’ll likely be completely incapacitated for those few moments, it would be unfortunate if he were to try to call or text a colleague in this state.  So, Hannibal watches as Will’s consciousness fades, listens to his random, incoherent noises, until his muscles fall lax with sleep.

“Will,” Hannibal calls softly.  No reaction.  Will doesn’t react when Hannibal calls him more loudly, nor when he taps him, then pushes his shoulder.  When he slaps Will, once, quickly, on his cheek, and Will barely twitches. 

He has quite a lot of work ahead of him- depositing Will at the scene, muddying up his footprints and debris, planting blood on his hands and mouth.  Will would come to him, frantically searching for answers for the night before, and Hannibal would pretend to be concerned when he tells Will that he’d stormed out of his office rambling about incrimination. 

Eventually, he’ll realize that he’s not so different from The Ripper.  He’ll begin to disintegrate his ties to the arbitrary moral framework of his society.  And when that last mental wall collapses, when Will comes to accept the repressed truths about his nature, then both he and Hannibal will finally have someone they can freely, equally relate to.

He can’t wait until Will understands.


End file.
